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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24288616">let us waltz for the dead</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravitational/pseuds/gravitational'>gravitational</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, M/M, Paranormal, Past Character Death, Past Rape/Non-con, Supernatural Elements, Tragic Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:35:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,712</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24288616</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravitational/pseuds/gravitational</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They say not to linger at the Black Dog. The woods around it are dark and deep, and the beasts in the shadows are always aching.</p><p>They say never to drink from the hand of a stranger when the moon is high. Even the finest of spirits is far from worth a soul.</p><p>They say not to stop and stay a while. A night's sleep becomes eternal rest with a single breath.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. one</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story will be graphic. Heed all warnings.</p><p>"Farewell Wanderlust" - The Amazing Devil.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They say not to linger at the Black Dog.</p>
<p>The woods around it are dark and deep, and the beasts in the shadows are always aching.</p>
<p>They say never to drink from the hand of a stranger when the moon is high.</p>
<p>Even the finest of spirits is far from worth a soul.</p>
<p>They say not to stop and stay a while.</p>
<p>A night's sleep becomes eternal rest with a single breath.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>The moon is high overhead when the shape of a building comes into view ahead on the trail. It's tucked away within the woods, and Geralt spares a moment to question just what the wisdom of situating a home or business, whatever it may be, so many miles away from the nearest town. He blinks to clear the drowsy fog from his vision, murmuring softly to Roach. Even the gentle sway of her stride does little to keep him from dozing off.</p>
<p>It's just as Geralt is wondering at the lack of illumination that lights go on inside, and he starts in surprise, glancing from window to window. Even the lanterns hanging outside the door have gone on instantaneously, and now, in their warm rays, he can give the building a closer look.</p>
<p>It's two stories high, and it looks as though it came from a century past, with old wood and older latticework upon the windows. As Roach ambles slowly onward, a sign comes into view, hanging from an iron pole that sticks out from above the door - the image of a black hound is painted there, teeth bared and eyes red, "tavern and inn" written in script just beneath.</p>
<p>It's these words in particular that catch Geralt's eye.</p>
<p>He clucks to Roach, turning her for the tavern; her ears flick back, but she offers no protest, stopping at the hitching post without instruction and bobbing her head when Geralt dismounts. "Wait out here, girl," he tells her softly, patting her flank. "You might get some fresh hay tonight."</p>
<p>Pausing long enough to loop the reins about the wooden post, Geralt heads for the door. It opens with a quiet creak, and he slips inside, hit immediately with the warmth from a large fireplace situated directly across the large and open room. He pauses to adjust in the new rush of light, pulling the door shut behind him and sparing a glance around.</p>
<p>The tavern looks as though it were a hunting lodge, once, for there are animal heads stuffed and displayed on nearly every wall, gazes proud and distant on the beasts hung across from them. Above the fireplace is a massive elk's head, rack nearly spanning the entire length of the mantle - a truly impressive kill, Geralt admits to himself.</p>
<p>With some difficulty, he drags his gaze away from that of the dead thing, only to meet the eyes of yet another - a bearskin rug is laid out upon the hearth, around which four armchairs are arranged, creating an altogether pleasant tableau. Geralt grimaces when he takes in the massive head and equally intimidating fangs, grateful that he had not been the one to slay the thing. On either side of the fireplace is a doorway; a closer glance shows that one leads to a staircase, whereas the other seems merely to be a hallway, dark and empty.</p>
<p>Between him and the hearth are a multitude of tables, set up here and there throughout the room, although Geralt can't help but notice they're entirely empty. Not the most surprising thing, considering this tavern is located in the absolute depths of nothingness, but a little strange regardless; he's used to taverns being full of talk and drunken laughter.</p>
<p>"You plan on starin' all night?" comes a gruff voice, and Geralt looks to his left, where a bar stretches nearly the length of the wall. Leaning on the countertop is a heavyset man, his hair and thick beard both a deep and curly brown. There's a point to his ears, Geralt notices, but thinks little of it. "Or you here for something?"</p>
<p>"Forgive me," Geralt replies, approaching the bar. He rests his elbows on the counter, nodding toward the door. "I'm after a room for the night, and a stall for my horse, if it's possible. Maybe a drink, too."</p>
<p>The man heaves a sigh, but straightens regardless, moving toward the moneybox resting at the other end of the counter. "Fifty for it all."</p>
<p>Geralt's brows go up, and he pauses. "How much is each?"</p>
<p>"Twenty-five for the room, twenty for the stall, five for a round. Are you paying or not?"</p>
<p>He resists the urge to sigh, reaching into his pocket for the bunch of notes he'd been <i>meaning</i> to save for Cintra. "I'm paying," he says, rather uselessly, as he counts out fifty and hands it to the barkeep. "Stable at the back, I take it?"</p>
<p>The bartender nods, unlocking the money box with a key from the ring at his hip and shoving the notes inside unceremoniously. "Don't fuck with the stallion, he's a biter."</p>
<p>Geralt nods, turning for the door again, but he pauses with his hand on the knob, asking, "I didn't catch your name...?"</p>
<p>"Nivellen," he grunts, waving Geralt on as he turns to grab a set of glasses from the shelf. "Go on, I don't intend to be up serving you all night."</p>
<p>"... Geralt," he says belatedly, deciding he might as well, and steps outside.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>A half hour later finds Geralt reclining in one of the armchairs at the hearth, nursing his third glass of madeira for the evening. Nivellen had retreated down the hallway by the hearth, leaving Geralt with a brass key, instructions to "go upstairs, third on the left," and very little else. Empty now, the tavern floor is strangely eerie; Geralt feels as though he's doing something wrong, sitting here and drinking in the absence of anyone else.</p>
<p>The elk above the mantle has captured his attention once again, and the more he drinks, the harder he finds himself staring, trying to pinpoint just what it is that seems strange now. Perhaps it's the slight angle to its head - he's nearly certain it was staring straight on earlier.</p>
<p>Likely the madeira.</p>
<p>"Drinking alone, are we?"</p>
<p>Geralt's ashamed of the way he jumps, looking up in a hurry. There's a young man slipping through the gaps between the armchairs, perching himself - not in a chair - on the bearskin rug, his back to the flames. "I'm sorry?" Geralt asks, a few seconds too late.</p>
<p>"Drinking alone, are we?" repeats the man, and there's a glint in his eye, a smile on his lips. Geralt feels his stomach lurch as he takes in that smile. "Surely a man so handsome as you could find a partner. No fun in sipping spirits alone."</p>
<p>Geralt can't quite resist the urge to look back over his shoulder at the rest of the tavern, wondering just where this little thing came from, and when. "I travel alone," he replies, at last turning his gaze back to the young man. He's wearing a simple white chemise and equally simple trousers, and his feet are bare, Geralt notices. Strange.</p>
<p>The man cocks his head to the side, glancing Geralt over, and he can't help but feel as though he's being scrutinized more closely than ever before in his life. "A shame," he says, and he laughs then, sudden and bright.</p>
<p>It may be the best sound Geralt has ever heard.</p>
<p>"'A shame?'" he repeats, frowning. "I'm sorry, are you - were you in here earlier?"</p>
<p>He waves him off. "I've been around," he says, and the vagueness of that reply doesn't escape Geralt, though he sees little point in commenting. "What's your name?"</p>
<p>"... Geralt," he says at length. "And yours?"</p>
<p>"Jaskier," he says.</p>
<p>
  <i>Dandelion.</i>
</p>
<p>"A good name."</p>
<p>Jaskier smiles then, cocks his head to the side, and Geralt feels as though he's been punched in the throat. "Thank you," he says, leaning forward, his weight on both palms in front of his folded legs. "Tell me, Geralt, what's your poison tonight?"</p>
<p>Geralt must look confused, for Jaskier nods to the glass in his hand. "Oh," he says, ashamed. "Madeira."</p>
<p>Jaskier hums with that, and there's a strange little light in his eye. "Mind if I try a sip? I tend to stick with brandy, myself."</p>
<p>Geralt is certain that confusion is his permanent expression now; regardless, he nods, leaning forward in his chair to offer up the glass, but - </p>
<p>- Jaskier is in motion, crawling toward him on hands and knees in a hurry, and Geralt <i>chokes</i> when the young little thing settles right against his legs, arms folded across his lap, head tipped back and lips open expectantly.</p>
<p><i>Surely he's tipsy,</i> he thinks, struggling for a hint of reason when the rest of his mind and body is enthralled by the little display. Nonetheless, Geralt clears his throat; his touch is cautious when he steadies Jaskier's chin with a hand, tipping the glass to those pink and open lips.</p>
<p>He knows he doesn't imagine the way Jaskier's eyes go dark, fluttering halfway shut, or the way his tongue pokes out to swipe across his lower lip after he swallows and Geralt's pulled the glass away. "Not half-bad," he remarks, as casually as if he'd merely gotten a taste in the <i>normal</i> way. "Brandy has more of a kick, though."</p>
<p>Geralt shrugs, rigid in his chair now. "I suppose," he says faintly. "I'm not after a night of proper drunkenness, though."</p>
<p>Jaskier laughs in response; he makes no move to return to his previous position, in fact settling more comfortably where he is, his chin laid upon his folded hands so he's looking up at Geralt through long, dark lashes. "And why is that?" he asks. "Surely you're not against a bit of... harmless fun?"</p>
<p>The brush of fingertips along his thigh makes Geralt startle, and he breathes in a little too sharply, grip on his glass bordering on too firm. "I doubt this is entirely appropriate," he mutters, glancing about the room once again. Empty. "Besides, I meant to turn in early - "</p>
<p>"Oh, come on, now," Jaskier breaks in, and his voice is a low croon now, one that's entirely discordant with the youthful softness of his face and frame. "Surely you can spare an evening..."</p>
<p>Geralt hesitates, and his pause must be just too long for Jaskier, because before he can muster a response, the boy is kneeling up high enough to press a tender kiss to his lips - tender but firm, a kiss that leaves little room for disagreement.</p>
<p>Suddenly, Geralt is far from inclined to disagree.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>"Upstairs, third on the left" is a room of decent size, one with a window that overlooks the forest all around - a window that allows a bright white swath of moonlight to spread across every surface in the room. There's a four-poster bed, one with a canopy over it, curtains about the sides; at its foot is a large chest, and across, on the opposite wall, is a dresser with a mirror atop, one that glints in the glow of the moon.</p>
<p>This is all Geralt spares the time to observe, for Jaskier is flush against his chest again already, drawing him down into another kiss that's far deeper than before, far more urgent. Geralt fights a groan at the hunger he can feel in the little thing's frame, holding him steady with both hands on his waist and drawing him in close. He tastes of brandy and madeira alike, and there's a hint of blood on his tongue, but Geralt pays it no mind.</p>
<p>Likely just a stray glance of teeth.</p>
<p>Jaskier is pressing closer, closer, his open lips begging for Geralt to ravish them, and, just as before, he sees no point in resistance. Besides, the little thing purrs so <i>prettily</i> when he slots a thigh in between his own, when he presses up just so against the subtle bulge of his cock through his trousers. </p>
<p>It's the younger man that breaks the kiss first, and Geralt shudders as he takes him in, those deep blue eyes bright in the moonlight. "To the bed," Jaskier breathes, but even as he speaks, he's rocking his hips down, grinding along the length of Geralt's thigh in a way that has his mouth <i>watering.</i> Fuck, he can only imagine how good those skillful hips would feel around his cock...</p>
<p>"Have to stop moving if you want to lie down," Geralt points out softly, but when he tries to draw his leg back, Jaskier <i>whines,</i> his hips bucking a little harder. "Fuck, come on, darling, stop - "</p>
<p>"Don't call me that," Jaskier spits suddenly, and Geralt feels as though he might as well have whiplash, but he doesn't argue, just nods, squeezes his waist in quick apology and uses his firmer grip to hold Jaskier in place so he can actually pull away. "Fuck, <i>fuck,</i> come back - "</p>
<p>"I'm right here," he says, backing toward the bed, and only when Jaskier seems to realize that he is, in fact, moving in that direction, does he relax. "I'm right here, it's okay, Jaskier, come on..."</p>
<p>He's more than a little taken aback when Jaskier all but <i>pounces,</i> pushing Geralt back and down - decides against protesting when the little thing is perched upon his lap in the next instant, sitting there on the edge of the bed. His hands find Jaskier's lithe hips once more, and he breathes out a groan into the kiss Jaskier draws him into, shuddering with the sheer intensity of it. Fuck, he's so <i>eager,</i> so demanding - </p>
<p>"Lie down," Jaskier says against him, but now it's Geralt's turn to hesitate, grip tightening when the young man circles his hips <i>just right</i> to push down onto his cock. "Fuck, come on, l - lie down, I <i>need</i> you..."</p>
<p>Geralt murmurs a quick reassurance, forcing himself to let go; Jaskier stands again, just long enough for Geralt to lie back properly in bed. He's grateful for the translucence of the curtains about the bed, more due to the fact that the moonlight coming through casts Jaskier in a subtle glow when he crawls in to settle atop him than anything else. </p>
<p>"Don't guess you've got oil, do you?" Geralt asks, low and breathless, his eyes fixed on Jaskier's as the other man straddles his hips, hands braced on his chest. "We'll - <i>fuck</i> - we'll need it - "</p>
<p>Jaskier shakes his head, those pretty pink lips open and kiss-swollen, his hips rolling steadily now. Geralt bites back another groan, grabbing for him again, holding him firm even as he bucks up in return, suddenly <i>aching</i> to be inside him. "Don't have any," he replies, and Geralt is an instant away from cursing out the gods, but he falters when Jaskier rises enough to undo the laces of his trousers, pulling back and kneeling up to get them off. He's naked beneath, his cock hard and dripping. "I don't need it, I stretched myself before, it's okay."</p>
<p>Geralt's eyes widen, and he shudders with the imagery, his head falling back onto the pillows. "Only if you're sure," he says, but already, Jaskier is undoing the laces of his own trousers, his fingertips brushing slow and firm along the bulge of his cock; he bites his lip, keeps quiet, even when Jaskier reaches inside to wrap a hand around him, even when Jaskier's thumb swipes across the head. "I don't want to hurt you - "</p>
<p>There's something almost harsh in Jaskier's eyes when he glances back to Geralt, but he shakes his head, letting go all too soon and kneeling up again to pull his pants down and off. Geralt's hands go automatically to the hem of his chemise, but Jaskier catches his wrist, murmuring a quick, "No."</p>
<p>Once again, he offers up no question.</p>
<p>Jaskier's grip is firm when he holds Geralt's shaft in place for him to sink down, and Geralt gasps out a groan when the little thing's heat is clenching tight about his cock. "F - fuck, be careful - " he manages to say, but Jaskier doesn't seem to care; he takes him to the base without an instant's faltering, and the high little keen he gives when Geralt is filling him sends a rush of <i>need</i> down Geralt's spine. "You're so - so <i>tight,</i> fuck - "</p>
<p>"Quiet," Jaskier hisses, his voice broken with his little whimpers and moans. "Be quiet, Geralt, k - kiss me again..."</p>
<p>He's quick to obey, weaving a hand into Jaskier's dark hair to draw him down; distracted by the sharp bite of his teeth, by the quick and maddening motion of his hips, he almost doesn't notice the hot and sticky warmth at the back of the little thing's head. Geralt falters when his fingers brush over the patch of matted hair, readjusts his grip, tries to find it again - but Jaskier is pushing deeper, deeper, whimpering and begging for more, and when his fingers pass against his scalp, he feels nothing odd.</p>
<p><i>Just the madeira,</i> he tells himself, and then, because Jaskier's hips are the most torturous fucking thing, circling so filthily on his cock, he quits thinking altogether.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>Afterward, when Jaskier is laying atop his chest, spent and panting and still dripping wet, Geralt breathes out a sigh, his eyes on the top of the canopy overhead. "You're a strange one, you know," he remarks softly, rubbing a gentle pattern onto Jaskier's back.</p>
<p>The younger man hums in reply, settling in more comfortably with his head on Geralt's chest, one thigh draped over his own. He's marked with bruises now, his hips and thighs purple and red, his hole still slowly leaking. There's some marks on his throat, too, where Geralt had bitten down, had drawn out high and keening cries from this feisty little thing. "People say that often," he replies at last.</p>
<p>"Oh, do you often fall into bed with strangers here?" Geralt says, and he means it entirely in jest, truly, but - </p>
<p>Jaskier goes rigid, and he pushes himself up onto an elbow, frowning at Geralt with something almost akin to anger in his eyes. "Whatever accusation you're making, you're <i>wrong."</i></p>
<p>Geralt is quick to soothe him, brushing the back of his hand along his flushed cheek and taking private pride in the way Jaskier seems almost immediately to calm. "I meant nothing by it," he says, tone carefully steady. "It was a joke, albeit in poor taste. I just wondered if you've spent much time at this inn."</p>
<p>There's still suspicion in Jaskier's gaze, but he's no longer bristling. "I have," he replies shortly, laying his head back down. He gives a quiet groan of content when he readjusts his hips, his eyes falling shut. "That's all you need know for now."</p>
<p>
  <i>Truly a strange one.</i>
</p>
<p>Geralt heaves a sigh, laying his head back and closing his eyes. "Alright," he replies. "Rest now. I'll try not to wake you when I leave in the morning."</p>
<p>Jaskier gives little more than a nod to indicate he's even heard.</p>
<p>Geralt falls asleep to the sound of a storm rolling in across the trees, and to the warmth of Jaskier on his chest.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>There's blood on Geralt's undershirt when he wakes, and a crack in the mirror he doubts was there before.</p>
<p>Jaskier is nowhere to be seen.</p>
<p>He stands in front of the broken glass for nigh on twenty minutes, staring at his crooked reflection.</p>
<p>The blood is not his own, this he knows for sure.</p>
<p>At last, Geralt turns away with a sigh, putting his coat back over the top.</p>
<p>He spares the mirror another glance just before he locks the door, heading downstairs.</p>
<p>He hopes the storm won't have washed out the roads.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They say that the devil is in the details.</p>
<p>Things can change with an instant's notice - there one second, gone the next.</p>
<p>They say that to lay with the devil is to sell your soul.</p>
<p>A fitting end.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>The lower floor of the tavern is largely darkened when Geralt descends the stairs, only the fireplace lit. It's bewildering at first - after all, it isn't terribly early in the morning. The dull light of the tavern, combined with the stormclouds and rain outside, lend a gloomy atmosphere to everything, one that has unease twisting low in Geralt's stomach.</p>
<p>"Out of luck if you're looking to head out," comes a gruff voice, and Geralt looks to the bar, only partially surprised to see Nivellen there, wiping it clean.</p>
<p>
  <i>Funny thing, cleaning something that hasn't been used.</i>
</p>
<p>"Come again?" Geralt asks as he crosses the room, settling onto a barstool and watching the damp rag move across the smooth wooden counter with passive interest.</p>
<p>Nivellen hooks a thumb at the windows, but doesn't look away from his task. "Storm washed out all the roads for miles around. Doesn't look as though it'll clear up any time soon, neither. Your horse would get bogged down, sure as anything."</p>
<p>Geralt heaves a sigh, frustrated by the confirmation, though not exactly surprised. "It came on fast," he remarks, gaze straying to the window nearest him. He could barely see the trees for the pouring rain, falling from the clouds in thick curtains that turned the world a murky gray and black. "Won't bother you if I wait it out here, will it?"</p>
<p>Nivellen merely shrugs, saying in a tone that, while not unkind, is nonetheless indifferent, "Long as you've got the money, you can stay for a week, for all I care. Breakfast served half-past nine, lunch at one, dinner at eight. Gonna cost you."</p>
<p>Of course it will.</p>
<p>Shaking his head, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his purse again. "Get a lot of traffic here, then?" he asks idly, counting out the notes for another night's rest.</p>
<p>"Decent amount," Nivellen grunts, disinterested. "Why?"</p>
<p>Geralt shrugs, setting the money down and pocketing his purse once more. "There was a man last night, said he spends plenty of time here. Thought it was interesting."</p>
<p>The barkeep falters, looking at him with a gaze that's not quite critical, not quite concerned. "Second thought, you might better not stick around."</p>
<p>That gives Geralt pause. "Pardon?"</p>
<p>"Nothing but trouble, that kid. If he's taken a fancy to you, well... more's the shame."</p>
<p>Frowning, Geralt looks up once more, uncertain as to how he's meant to take that.</p>
<p>Nivellen cocks a brow. "Just telling you how it is," he says, oddly curt now. "Plan on wantin' breakfast?"</p>
<p>Taken aback by the sudden change in demeanor, Geralt shakes his head. "I'll eat at one," he replies. "I should... I should go check on my mare."</p>
<p>The bartender seems satisfied with this, merely nodding and redoubling his efforts to clean what must be an immensely stubborn spot that Geralt simply cannot see. "Remember the stallion," he warns dismissively. "He's - "</p>
<p>"A biter, I remember," Geralt finishes, sighing as he stands. "I know."</p>
<p>As he turns to leave, reaching for the front doorknob, he realizes that the strange glint he'd seen in Nivellen's eye is not unfamiliar at all -  no, it was pity.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>When Geralt steps outside, he realizes immediately that this is not a storm that intends to show any mercy to whatever happens to be in its path. The wind is fierce in and of itself, driving the rain into his skin with force that stings. He grits his jaw, grateful that there are barely three yards between himself and the stable awning. Still, he does not look forward to crossing that scant distance.</p>
<p>Biting back a sigh, he makes a break for it, dashing toward the awning and having just the presence of mind to marvel at just how <i>fucking wet</i> he gets in the span of <i>maybe</i> five, six seconds. He stops short once he's under cover, sucking in a gasp for air and shaking his now-drenched hair from his eyes.</p>
<p>If the roads weren't washed out by midnight, they sure as hell are now.</p>
<p>Geralt shakes himself to dislodge some of the excess rain clinging to his skin and coat, heading inside. He's greeted by the warm glow of a lantern above, somehow just as bright as it was last night when he came to put Roach away. The stable is split in half by a wide, cobblestone corridor; there are places in the floor where the stones have crumbled away, and he can see the wood and dirt beneath. Three wide stalls line each side. To his left, Roach whinnies in greeting, and he approaches with a soft croon.</p>
<p>She sticks her head out over the door to butt against his shoulder, and Geralt softens, smiling to himself as he brushes her forelock smooth. "Hope your night was less eventful than mine," he tells her, resting his brow on her own when she settles. Roach merely snorts, and he hears her pawing on the other side of the door.</p>
<p>He rests there for a beat, enjoying this moment of peace - this moment of warmth, when the world outside is so strange and harsh. A louder, deeper snort and accompanying nicker draws him from his reverie a few moments later, and he looks up.</p>
<p>The stallion Nivellen warned him against is in the stall to Roach's left. Funny. Geralt is <i>certain</i> he was across the corridor the night before...</p>
<p>As he straightens up, the stallion snorts once more, tossing his head. He's a draft of some sort, a big, beastly black thing, but there's enough fleetness evident in his frame that Geralt suspects he's a foxhunter of some type or another.</p>
<p>Lord knows he's got the spirit for it; you'd have to be deaf not to hear the way he's pacing in his stall, tail lashing and head reared back.</p>
<p>Geralt watches him with no small degree of wariness, wondering who thought it a good idea to move the stallion across beside his mare.</p>
<p>"Watch yourself," he says in quiet warning, leaving Roach for the saddle racks in the corner of the stable. He grabs Roach's brush from the saddlebag, heading for her stall and undoing the latch to slip inside. It pleases him to see that the hay net and water trough are freshly filled; evidently somebody here is in charge of the stables. The evening before, he had found the stall in pristine shape, as well - fully stocked, clean, ready for use. Patting Roach's flank, he sets to work, brushing away the night's worth of straw bits stuck to her coat.</p>
<p>Roach, for all that she enjoys a good bit of fun now and then, is always docile when Geralt needs her to be, and now is no exception. She stands with her head low, nibbling thoughtfully at the hay. Geralt hums a mindless tune to her as he works, though he knows better than to turn his back entirely on the stallion in the other stall; he keeps his body turned, one eye on the black beast.</p>
<p>At last, he moves to Roach's opposite side, the red mare now between him and the stallion. The larger horse seems to calm some, and Geralt permits himself to relax, focusing the majority of his attention on Roach once more.</p>
<p>This proves to be a mistake barely five minutes later.</p>
<p>A clamor of hooves and a blur of movement is all the warning he gets before the stallion is lurching against the stall divider, before the stallion's head is snaking for Roach. Geralt hears his mare squeal, steps back when she kicks, soothes her with as much calm in his tone as he can when she's sidestepping into him.</p>
<p>Geralt curses under his breath as he rounds Roach once more, letting the mare back off to the opposite side of the stall and putting himself between the horses once more. The stallion is nearly screaming now, blood on his teeth and head tossing as he paces in place. "Never taught manners, were you?" Geralt asks irritably, watching those wild eyes roll.</p>
<p>He glances back over his shoulder, seeing the bite wound on Roach's neck. Sighing, he backs toward her, sets a hand on her quivering side and speaks low until she begins to calm. All the while, his eyes are on the stallion, that black coat glistening with sweat as though it had been pushed hard after a fox for miles.  "No manners at all."</p>
<p>The stallion merely snorts again, and Geralt can practically <i>feel</i> the disdain in the sound. He shakes his head, trusting Roach to stay out of reach as he leaves the stall, heading once more for the saddle racks. He carries salve in the saddlebags at all times, although he has to admit, this is the first time Roach has been attacked by something apart from mosquitoes or horseflies.</p>
<p>It's as he returns to the stall that the stallion strikes again. Geralt is reaching to open the door when the bastard lunges, slamming into his own door with a loud thud and lashing out. Harsh teeth close over the wrist of his extended arm, and Geralt nearly doubles over with pain.</p>
<p>He strikes the stallion between the eyes, hating himself for an instant, but drawing back in relief when the black beast lets go, recoiling with a squeal that hurts Geralt's ears. "Try it again, and I'll hit you harder," he mutters, mostly to himself, backing off a couple of steps to survey the damage.</p>
<p>The skin is torn, blood dripping steadily, but he guesses he's fortunate that the bite isn't any deeper than it is already. Geralt sighs, eyeing the stallion warily as he slips back into the stall to tend to Roach. The beast is eyeing him much the same, retreating back into the corner of his own stall with a frustrated switch of his tail.</p>
<p>Good riddance.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>The rain has shown no signs of easing up when Geralt leaves the stable; if anything, it's pouring just as hard as it was the evening before, rain tumbling from the rooftops and beating its way down through wind-bowed limbs and leaves. Geralt sighs as he stands beneath the stable's awning, bracing himself to run. He hadn't planned on rain when he'd set out for Cintra - his coat lacks a hood or cowl, something he would have truly appreciated at about this time.</p>
<p>Steeling himself against the cold onslaught, he rushes for the door of the Black Dog, relieved when it opens easily under his own weight. By the time he's crossed those scant three yards, he's virtually drenched once more, and he knows it'll be a welcome relief to be able to sit down before the fire. He lets the door swing shut behind him as he stalls on the rug just beyond, letting the worst of the water drip off him here as he gives the tavern floor a cursory glance, halfway expecting to see Jaskier lounging by the hearth, or, at the very least, Nivellen behind the bar, preparing to offer up a dish.</p>
<p>He sees neither.</p>
<p>In fact, he sees an entirely unfamiliar face behind the bar - a young woman with hair that's so deep a shade Geralt isn't sure if it's red or brown, chopped short and curly and uneven. She's leaning on the countertop and nursing a tankard of what Geralt can plainly smell is ale; there's a platter of food in front of her, much too large for one person.</p>
<p>Geralt blames surprise on the way he falters, more than anything, staring for a good half-minute.</p>
<p>The woman cocks a brow at him when she lowers her tankard, and lets the silence go on for another moment before she says, with a laugh that's short and sudden, "You act as if you've never seen a girl before."</p>
<p>Called out, he clears his throat, shaking his head to clear it as he heads for the bar. "I was expecting Nivellen," he replies, a little gruffly, and the woman shrugs, giving him a cursory once-over as he sits down across from her. "Your name...?"</p>
<p>"Renfri," she replies, doing a flourish-y gesture with one hand, then gesturing to the platter in front of her. "Hope you don't mind sharing."</p>
<p>Geralt glances down at it - cheeses, meats, pastries, a loaf of bread, all laid out in an aesthetic pattern Geralt knows better than to give Nivellen credit for. It's obvious that Renfri has already sampled the former, mostly because she reaches for another little cube of aged cheddar as Geralt watches. "Not at all," he says, and he finds he means it; Renfri seems a curious sort, certainly a better conversationalist than Nivellen. "Is it customary to dine with your guests?"</p>
<p>Renfri snorts, shaking her head as she pops the cube into her mouth and turns toward the wall behind her. "When there's only one guest in the entire tavern, yes," she says over her shoulder, voice slightly muffled. "What're you drinking?"</p>
<p>He hesitates a moment as he reaches for a pastry first. <i>Maybe Jaskier is part of the staff, then.</i> "Water is alright for now," he says. "Never was much for day drinking."</p>
<p>Nodding, she turns away from the selection of spirits and reaches instead for a simple pitcher, filling up a tankard with practiced ease. "I see the fucker bit you," she says, jerking her chin toward the wound on Geralt's wrist. "Nasty old thing, isn't he?"</p>
<p>Geralt glances automatically to the torn skin of his arm. "Yes," he sighs, taking the tankard from her with a grateful nod. "Looked hungry, so I figured I'd feed him while I tended to Roach, and, well - "</p>
<p>" - and he whipped around and bit you," Renfri says; she speaks with the sort of firm authority that makes it plain she's dealt with the stallion before. She leans her weight onto the counter once more, cocking a playful brow as Geralt reaches for the knife resting beside the platter, slicing into the bread. "Lucky he didn't take off more of your arm than he did."</p>
<p>He gives a weary hum, close enough to laughter, taking one of the slices and making a rather awkward little sandwich with the meat and cheese. "Have you worked here long?" he asks her, taking a bite. "Building looks like it's pretty old."</p>
<p>Renfri shrugs then. "Long enough," she says; the vagueness of her reply doesn't escape Geralt, but he chooses not to comment. "Longer than the grouchy old bastard usually up here."</p>
<p>Geralt lets the corner of his mouth tip upward in a half-smile; the description is apt enough, he has to admit. "So, ah... you know the staff well?"</p>
<p>A sort of veil comes down across her eyes, but she nods regardless, cocking her head to the side. "What makes you ask?"</p>
<p>"Well, the, uh..." He pauses there, unsure if there's any less crass way to explain things than <i>there was a boy who very enthusiastically seduced me last night.</i> "The younger man who works here? He's an... interesting sort."</p>
<p>Renfri hums then, low and amused, and Geralt falters, recognizing the glint in her eye as the same spark of pity that Nivellen's had held before. "Ah," she says, her tone suddenly flat in the instant before she seems to pick back up her smile. "Jaskier."</p>
<p>Geralt nods, oddly relieved, and finishes off his makeshift little sandwich. "Does he, ah... make a habit of associating with the guests?"</p>
<p>"Unfortunately," she sighs, although there's something different about her now, something... off. "A habit he won't be broken of, let's call it that."</p>
<p>"A habit," he repeats dryly. "You sound as if this is a constant issue."</p>
<p>Renfri scoffs, and the shake of her head is almost resigned. "To put it lightly," she replies. "If he bothers you again, I suggest at least pretending to have some degree of decorum and leaving him behind."</p>
<p>Geralt feels a flush rise to his cheeks, and he clears his throat. "I'll make an effort," he replies, deciding he can guarantee at least that much.</p>
<p>The woman nods, though she doesn't seem entirely convinced; to be fair, Geralt himself isn't the most confident in his ability to reject the boy, should he approach him again. "See that you do," she replies simply. "I trust you'll be leaving once the storm passes?"</p>
<p>A response is on the tip of his tongue, but as if eager to join the conversation, a peal of thunder comes from overhead, deep enough that it rattles the tankards and glasses hanging upon the racks at the back of the bar. Geralt pauses, brows cocked in a mirror of Renfri's expression as they watch the vessels, then meet eachother's gazes.</p>
<p><i>"If</i> the storm passes," Renfri amends with a weary sigh. "Well... I've got to go tend to things in the back, but by all means, eat what you will. I'll clean up later."</p>
<p>Geralt nods, the softest huff of laughter escaping him as he watches the irritated way Renfri adjusts the vessels that had slipped from their previous positions. It's easy enough to tell that Renfri is the one responsible for much of the order in this place - Nivellen likely wouldn't have given the skewed things a second glance. "I suppose I'll see you around?"</p>
<p>Renfri offers little more than a shrug as she grabs her drink, already walking out from behind the bar. She rounds the corner to clap Geralt on the shoulder with surprising force, and he turns his head to watch her, seeing her gaze on the rain-battered windows. "We'll see," she says, and that's that. She turns to leave, disappearing down the other hallway by the hearth.</p>
<p>Geralt watches her retreat until he hears a door open and close. With a thoughtful exhale, he looks up to the tankards and glasses hanging from the racks.</p>
<p>One glass is cracked.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>Geralt retreats to his room once he's finished off the platter, pleasantly full and ready to spend the afternoon in peace and quiet. Were it a nicer day, he would have taken joy out of exploring the property, or even just the halls, but as is, he finds he wants few things more than a chance at rest - and a chance to bandage his wrist, for another thing.</p>
<p>The sense of something being off is the first thing to hit him as he unlocks his door. He pauses there, with it halfway open, frowning to himself. From here, he can see little more than the bed, which looks just the same as always. The window is shivering under the force of the rain and wind, but he doubts it will give.</p>
<p>At last, he shakes his head and pushes the door open, stepping into the room.</p>
<p>It takes only a glance for him to realize that, indeed, he was right - something <i>is</i> off.</p>
<p>Geralt's gaze darts immediately to the mirror.</p>
<p>The crack is gone, and so is the blood.</p>
<p>He has no words for the strange feeling that settles in the pit of his stomach.</p>
<p>Swallowing bewildered nerves, he pushes the door closed behind him - slowly, as if to move too quickly is to alert whatever strange imp breaks and replaces mirrors - and approaches the dresser, holding his reflection's gaze.</p>
<p>Surely he imagines the way his eyes look brighter, the rest of him darker, in the newly-mended glass.</p>
<p>Geralt stands there, evaluating the glass, listening to the wind and rain beat against the window. He stands there, holding his gaze, until the room seems to darken at his back, until his mind begins to play its little tricks - until his face begins to morph, twisting into a facsimile of itself - </p>
<p>- and then, just as his eyes become the brightest spot in the shadows, he blinks, and the trance is broken.</p>
<p><i>A worker must have come to check the room,</i> he decides, turning away, <i>and replaced the mirror.</i></p>
<p>The only explanation.</p>
<p>He heads for the washroom, glancing down to the bite in his wrist. It's ceased to bleed, something for which he's grateful, but he realizes the pain has only barely abated.</p>
<p>With a weary sigh, he holds it beneath running water, watching with a strange sort of fascination as the flow turns first crimson, then pink with time.</p>
<p>He loses track of the minutes that pass, jarred back into reality by the sound of footsteps in the outer room.</p>
<p>Geralt pauses, lifts his head, meets his eyes in the washroom mirror for an instant - sees movement in the reflection, in the doorway.</p>
<p>He turns in a rush, uncertain as to what he expects.</p>
<p>He sees nothing.</p>
<p>The unease in his stomach is something nearer to fear now.</p>
<p>Shutting off the water, he turns to face the doorway, wounded wrist hanging at his side.</p>
<p>
  <i>It came for the scent of blood.</i>
</p>
<p>The thought enters his head unbidden, and Geralt blinks, shaking it away. There's nothing there.</p>
<p>Nothing there, either, when he walks into the main room, when he glances around.</p>
<p>Nothing except that mirror, a hairline crack spiderwebbing its way across the glass.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>He spends the rest of the afternoon in quiet, sitting in bed and watching the rain fall.</p>
<p>He gives no thought to the quiet sounds coming from the washroom.</p>
<p>Just a rat, most likely.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>Eight o' clock arrives at last, and Geralt has never been more eager to flee his lodgings than he is when he goes downstairs to see if, by chance, dinner is any more or less eventful than lunch had been.</p>
<p>The fire within the hearth has been lit once again, and Geralt cannot help but be relieved; it really is amazing, the difference a fire can make, in making a place feel more like a home. Nivellen is once again behind the bar, and there's a plate of what looks to be roast chicken and vegetables in front of him. He looks up when Geralt approaches, motioning toward the plate with an awkward half-smile.</p>
<p>"Kept it warm for you," is his simple, weary greeting.</p>
<p>Geralt decides not to take too much offense from the way Nivellen seems less than interested in conversation now, ever since this morning. "Thank you," he says, heaving a sigh as he sits down on what's quickly become his usual barstool. "Are you - "</p>
<p>But before he can finish his inquiry, Nivellen is setting a glass of madeira in front of him and turning to leave, heading for the same door through which Renfri had disappeared earlier in the day.</p>
<p>For a good few seconds, Geralt simply stares after him, trying to decide what, exactly, he did to offend the grizzled bartender so profoundly.</p>
<p>He shakes his head to clear it, picking up a fork and tending to his dinner.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>It's just as Geralt becomes aware of how eerie this room is, completely empty and all but abandoned, that he feels a new presence, one that's slipping onto the barstool just to his right. Startled, he looks over, nearly choking on his latest mouthful when he recognizes Jaskier, leaning an elbow on the counter and regarding him with a cunning little smile.</p>
<p>"Do you make a habit of terrifying guests?" Geralt asks, once he's gotten past the risk of asphyxiation. He clears his throat, reaching for his drink and swallowing a generous dose to ease the new pain. "Where did you come from?"</p>
<p>Jaskier ignores both of these questions, gaze fixated on Geralt's lips as he drinks. "You're still here," he says, and there's a strange little note of glee in his tone.</p>
<p>Geralt hides his frown, remembering the way Nivellen and Renfri had reacted at the mention of this strange little thing. "The roads are likely washed out," he replies, setting his fork down. He wonders, absurdly, if tonight will end the same way as the last. "I'm waiting out the storm."</p>
<p>Jaskier hums in reply, tilting his head to the side; Geralt glances down, watches as the young man's hand comes to rest on his knee. The slow brush of his thumb sends a tremor up Geralt's spine against his own will. "Drinking alone again, I see."</p>
<p>"Not very many others in this tavern," he points out, and Jaskier laughs.</p>
<p>It's the prettiest sound Geralt has ever heard.</p>
<p>"I would join you," the little thing replies, and as he drops his gaze to where he's running his hand up higher, Geralt feels a spike of <i>need</i> drive itself through his frame, "but I've already sampled the finest brandy, and I don't imagine I should drink any more."</p>
<p>Geralt gives him a cautious glance, biting his lip against that strange desire. He doesn't understand how Jaskier caused it so damn easily, when Geralt can surround himself with the finest company and still encourage a bit of a chase before he beds anyone, or allowed them to bed him. "Sounds like a wise decision," he says, and clears his throat.</p>
<p>Jaskier's hand is nearly upon his groin now, resting high on the juncture of his thigh. Geralt is tense, willing his body to remain unaffected - but he's fighting a losing battle. The moment Jaskier's fingertips brush along the bulge of his cock through his trousers, his breath catches, and he says, in a voice that sounds half-strangled, "Are you always this forward?"</p>
<p>The younger man shrugs.</p>
<p>That's all the answer he offers before he's leaning up and in, capturing Geralt's lips in a kiss that feels of searing heat.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>Tonight, it's Jaskier who has Geralt pinned to the door of his room, and it's Jaskier whose thigh finds a place between Geralt's own. </p>
<p>Geralt chokes on a moan of the younger man's name when Jaskier deepens the kiss that already threatens to devour Geralt alive, digs his nails into Jaskier's arms to keep himself steady as he rolls his hips down onto that slim thigh. "W - wait - bed - "</p>
<p>Jaskier makes a noise of discontent, tangling both hands in Geralt's hair and drawing him in deeper, deeper, licking into his mouth and rocking his hips until Geralt is moaning against his lips, rutting onto his thigh like he's in <i>heat,</i> goddamn him. At last, all of a sudden, Jaskier breaks away, leaving Geralt bereft when he steps away and says, "I want to fuck you tonight."</p>
<p>Geralt is still as good as fucking reeling, his world spinning around him in a cloud of lust and confusion; he pauses to catch his breath, steadying himself against the door at his back as he stares at Jaskier.</p>
<p>The little thing is wearing the same clothes as the night before - an undone chemise and trousers that hug his frame so damn perfectly they have Geralt's mouth watering. He remembers the shape and size of Jaskier's cock from their romp, feels a tremor go through his frame when he imagines that cock inside him. Swallowing, he nods, and Jaskier brightens.</p>
<p>There's something to be said for the firmness of Jaskier's grasp when he guides Geralt to his hands and knees on the foot of the bed, those slender hands planted firmly on his hips once they make quick work of his pants. Geralt breathes out shakily, tips himself forward to rest his head on folded arms, braces himself against the initial sting when Jaskier slips a finger inside him.</p>
<p>There's <i>plenty</i> to be said of the <i>skill</i> of those goddamn hands. Jaskier has him panting before long, pushing back onto his hand with ragged sounds he doesn't know if he's ever made before - has him moaning aloud when he crooks his fingers up to brush over the nerves deep inside his core. Geralt's hips buck, and he lifts his head for just an instant, meaning to look back over his shoulder, but he catches a golden gaze, and falters.</p>
<p>Positioned like this, he's facing the dresser - he's facing that goddamn mirror - he's holding his own gaze, and kneeling just behind him, Jaskier is watching him with predatory eyes, a half-cruel smile twisting his once-soft face.</p>
<p>Geralt feels <i>fear</i> rush through him when Jaskier winks, those cornflower eyes flashing too bright, but before he can take in anything more than the absence of the cracks across the glass, Jaskier is twisting his hand once more, and Geralt is moaning aloud, eyes falling shut.</p>
<p>"D - darling," he fumbles out, his voice ragged with need, and the next crook of Jaskier's fingers is harsh, digging into his spot with enough force that Geralt fucking <i>sobs.</i></p>
<p><i>"Don't,"</i> Jaskier says, his voice low and firm, "call me that."</p>
<p>As quick as the moment passes, it's gone, and so are Jaskier's fingers.</p>
<p>Geralt scarcely has the time to mourn their passing before Jaskier is gripping him by the hips and pushing in slow, slow, rocking in so damn deep that Geralt feels it in his <i>throat.</i></p>
<p>He falls apart holding his own gaze in the mirror, spilling across the sheets beneath him as Jaskier's face twists into a bloody mockery of a smile.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>As they lay together afterward, spent and satisfied, it's Geralt whose head is upon Jaskier's chest this time. He can't deny the comfort of Jaskier's fingers combing through his hair, nor of Jaskier's embrace, holding him steady after the younger man took him apart so entirely.</p>
<p>"You left before I did this morning," Geralt remarks at last, his voice hoarse from begging. The shapes in the mirror are but a fever dream, replaced by the welcome ache in his hips, in his thighs. "Had somewhere to be?"</p>
<p>Jaskier pauses, his fingers stilling for an instant. "Yes," he says at length, resuming his motions. "Had to go bed your mother."</p>
<p>The comment is so out of place, so unexpected, that Geralt laughs, lifting his head. Jaskier meets his gaze, cornflower eyes sparkling, lips quirked in a smile. "I can't imagine she's a good partner," Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier merely shrugs.</p>
<p>"Her son certainly is," he replies.</p>
<p>That's all the urging Geralt needs to lean up, stealing another kiss that gradually turns deliberate.</p>
<p>Jaskier moans so prettily when Geralt's cock is down his throat, he discovers.</p>
<p>When he tangles his fingers in sex-rumpled hair to hold him firm, they come away wet and red.</p>
<p>He blinks, and the blood is gone.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>Jaskier is gone in the morning.</p>
<p>Geralt expected as much.</p>
<p>The storm is still raging on.</p>
<p>Geralt expected that, too.</p>
<p>What he did not expect is for the mirror to be once again shattered apart, its surface splashed with blood.</p>
<p>He sits up still in bed, looking at his reflection through a transparent red haze.</p>
<p>Out in the hallway, someone screams.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Comments / criticism welcome!</p>
<p>tumblr: gravitational813</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They say never to trust the devil's silver tongue.</p>
<p>To do so is to sign away your soul.</p>
<p>They say not to wander alone.</p>
<p>To do so is to never be seen again.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>The scream echoes out in the corridor, piercing loud and harsh and cruel until, abruptly it dies.</p>
<p>It dies, and Geralt is rigid, his eyes fixed on the bloody glass.</p>
<p>He blinks.</p>
<p>It's still there.</p>
<p>Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet. There's an ache, low. A memory.</p>
<p>A memory that's not entirely unwelcome.</p>
<p>The hallway is silent now, and so, he doesn't feel quite as much guilt when he takes the time to pull on his trousers and undershirt before he heads for the door. After all, the notion of facing his death unclothed is not one he finds appealing.</p>
<p>He isn't entirely certain what he expects when he opens the door - a grisly scene, perhaps, or even a rat on the floor, startling some maid.</p>
<p>He was not expecting to see merely Renfri, standing rigid a few feet away from his door, her eyes wide and haunted.</p>
<p>"Renfri?" he says, his voice rough with sleep. She seems not to hear at first. Geralt frowns, turning his head to follow her gaze down the hall...</p>
<p>... down to the mirror mounted on the wall at the far end.</p>
<p>Geralt's frown deepens.</p>
<p>Of all the people he would imagine to be afraid of their reflection, Renfri would never rank among them. Really, he wouldn't have imagined Renfri as afraid of anything, and yet, here she is, staring down the length of the hall as though it's done her harm.</p>
<p>"Are you okay?" Geralt asks, almost hesitant. He feels as though he's missing something here.</p>
<p>This time, Renfri starts, turning to look at him with eyes that quickly go bright with a forced smile. "Yeah," she says, almost breathless in her haste to reassure him. "Just got startled by my reflection, that's all. Happens a lot." She waves away his dubious glance. "I came to see if you were up yet. Breakfast is ready downstairs."</p>
<p>Geralt is quiet at first, his gaze still skeptical, but Renfri doesn't seem to care, her eyes already drawn back to the mirror at the end of the hall, as if she doesn't quite trust that it's merely her reflection in the glass, nothing more. "Thank you," he says. "I'll be down soon."</p>
<p>Renfri nods; it can't be just his imagination that says she looks almost relieved to be dismissed. She turns on her heel to head back down the hall for the stairwell, and Geralt stands in the doorway, looking after her until she starts the descent.</p>
<p>He turns to look toward the mirror then.</p>
<p>His face gazes back at him.</p>
<p>He hadn't seen his reflection's head turn.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>Maybe ten minutes pass before Geralt heads downstairs, having retreated into his room to dress. He'd spared no attention to the mirror on the vanity.</p>
<p>The first floor is dimly lit, only a few candles lit on shelves and counters; even the fire flickering in the hearth seems dull. It's odd, disconcerting, but Geralt gives it scarcely any thought. He's growing accustomed to the strange ways of the Black Dog.</p>
<p>Renfri stands behind the bar, polishing a glass decanter. She lifts her head when Geralt approaches, and the smile she gives is pasted on. "Breakfast on the house," she says by way of greeting, nodding toward the platter on the bartop. It's a pleasant little spread, breakfast meats and breads and eggs. "No need to thank me. Don't see much point in charging you for food when you've no other options."</p>
<p>"Thank you," Geralt says as he takes his usual seat, drawing the platter closer to himself. He watches Renfri through the corner of his eye as he takes his first bite, watches her hands move with near-mechanical precision.</p>
<p>She moves like one who's seeking diversion.</p>
<p>Silence passes between them for one, three, five minutes at the least, silence apart from the storm still raging against the tavern walls. The winds sound less violent today, and it seems to Geralt that the rains are calmer, too. He says at much when the quiet grows too oppressive, immediately startled when Renfri jumps as though shot.</p>
<p>The decanter falls from her hands.</p>
<p>It shatters on the floor behind the bar, glass spraying like blood from a wound.</p>
<p>Geralt winces as the shards clink to the ground.</p>
<p>"Are you - "</p>
<p>"Fine," Renfri says, her voice panicked. She backs away from the corpse of the decanter, and Geralt knows he's not imagining the haunted look in her eyes. "Sorry. Just got... startled. That's all."</p>
<p>Geralt watches her, worried. Something is not right.</p>
<p>Renfri is motionless, gaze on the floor - no doubt on the shrapnel, though Geralt cannot see.</p>
<p>"Let me help clean it up," he says, breaking the silence far more gently this time.</p>
<p>His words seem to jar Renfri from her shaky reverie, but she shakes her head, glancing up with eyes that plead for help and a face that demands isolation. "No," she says, though Geralt can sense the pain the denial causes her. "No, you're a guest. I'll take care of it."</p>
<p>Geralt is quiet.</p>
<p>Renfri's gaze falls once more.</p>
<p>He watches as she lifts a hand, brushing it across her temple as though to wipe away an impending ache.</p>
<p>"I'll take care of it," she repeats, softer now - soft and faint.</p>
<p>She turns away.</p>
<p>"Just... enjoy your meal."</p>
<p>Geralt watches as the woman slips around the counter, as she walks through the doorway he can only guess leads to the kitchen.</p>
<p>Though he sits, still and waiting, Renfri doesn't return.</p>
<p>He finishes his breakfast in silence.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>The rain has lapsed into temporary quiet by the time he retreats upstairs.</p>
<p>His eyes are on the floor as he climbs the stairs, but the sound of movement in the hallway draws his gaze up once more.</p>
<p>Geralt stops.</p>
<p>There's a young woman standing at the end of the hall, dust rag in hand. Her back is turned, but Geralt can make out brown hair beneath the frilled headband typical of a maid. Her servant's dress is plain, but even at this distance, it looks tattered at the hems; the white trim is faded.</p>
<p>He stands at the top of the stairs for a beat, taken aback by the presence of yet another in this strange tavern, watching the maid clean the surface of the mirror hanging on the wall.</p>
<p>A good thirty seconds passes before the maid seems to glimpse his reflection, and she jumps, whirling to face him.</p>
<p>The rag falls to the floor.</p>
<p>She appears shocked.</p>
<p>"I didn't mean to scare you," Geralt says quickly, his voice unwilling to work at first. "I'm sorry."</p>
<p>The girl simply stares, though her shoulders slump back into relaxation.</p>
<p>"I didn't realize there was anyone else here," he goes on, though it sounds idiotic even to his own ears. Of course a functioning tavern and inn would have a maid, even if the Black Dog is far from normal.</p>
<p>The maid tips her head to one side, and the smile she gives is forced.</p>
<p>It's almost worrying.</p>
<p>Geralt's words are softer when he speaks next. "I was just coming to get my coat from my room," he says, uncertain how to interpret the maid's silence. "Am I in your way?"</p>
<p>The maid shakes her head, stooping quickly to pick up the rag that had fallen at her feet. She wraps her fingers tightly into the old fabric; the fidgeting doesn't escape Geralt's notice, but he knows better than to breathe a word.</p>
<p>Geralt clears his throat.</p>
<p>Something is off.</p>
<p>"I apologize," he repeats, taking the few steps toward his door, though his sidelong gaze remains on the maid at the end of the hall.</p>
<p>He knows he doesn't imagine the way she tenses.</p>
<p>Geralt hesitates with his hand on the doorknob.</p>
<p>The maid turns away, back to the mirror.</p>
<p>Geralt has no idea what to make of it.</p>
<p>He slips into his room, heading straight for where his coat's hung up on the corner of the washroom door.</p>
<p>He spares only a brief glance to the mirror.</p>
<p>It is just the same as before.</p>
<p>The maid is gone when he leaves his room.</p>
<p>It's only as he shrugs his coat on and descends the staircase that he realizes he hadn't heard footsteps down the hall.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>The rain is still at a pause by the time Geralt steps out from beneath the tavern's awning. The air smells heavy, almost cloyingly sweet with the aftermath of the rain, but beneath it all is the stink of mud and hay from the stable. Geralt wrinkles his nose with mild disdain, though he breathes in deep regardless.</p>
<p>Somehow, even the moist air is more pleasant than that of the Black Dog.</p>
<p>The stable interior is quiet when he pushes open one of the heavy wooden doors, leaving it open for the overcast glow to spread inside. Roach lifts her head from where she'd been nibbling at the hay, turning bright eyes and pricked ears his way. "Hello, Roach," he greets, his tone soft.</p>
<p>His mare nickers, returning her attention to her meal immediately.</p>
<p>"No gratitude," Geralt muses, crossing the stable floor to approach her stall. Beneath his feet, the old floorboards creak and groan, louder than he remembers from before. He pauses when one splinters under his weight, looking down.</p>
<p>The floor is solid enough, built on firm earth.</p>
<p><em>The rain must be damaging the wood</em>, he reasons.</p>
<p>Before he can give the splintering wood any further thought, a loud, echoing snort demands his attention.</p>
<p>Geralt lifts his head.</p>
<p>The huge black stallion is all but glowering at him from the stall across the corridor.</p>
<p>... The stall across the corridor.</p>
<p>"Why, oh, why, do they keep moving you?" Geralt asks aloud, turning to lean his back against Roach's stall door. He folds his arms across his chest as he holds the bastard's cruel gaze, surprised to realize he's, well, <em>smug.</em> "Wait a minute... I think I know."</p>
<p>As if he knows what Geralt plans to say, the stallion stamps a hoof, heavy enough that Geralt hears wood cracking yet again. The stallion's head is bobbing now, nostrils flared wide as he stares Geralt down.</p>
<p>"I think it's because you're a biter," Geralt says, distantly aware that he should feel foolish for talking like this to a horse. "I think it's because you're an evil fucker - crazy, to boot."</p>
<p>The horse <em>screams.</em></p>
<p>Geralt flinches in spite of himself when the stallion rears partway, when those feathered hooves slam down hard enough for the crack of wood to echo loud.</p>
<p>He knows he's imagining the way the floor beneath him feels as though it shifts, nearly gives.</p>
<p>"Never were taught manners, were you?" he asks aloud, watching with growing disbelief as the stallion's thrashing only increases - head tossing, hooves pounding, haunches bucking. Foam sprays from bared teeth, and the whites of the devil's eyes flash bright as he screams.</p>
<p>At his back, he hears Roach snort, and he looks over his shoulder to his mare, who has turned to face the goings-on. Pushing aside his newfound trepidation with some unease, he tears his attention from the manic stallion. "Is he this mean when you're alone?" he asks her, turning fully to run a hand down her brow.</p>
<p>Roach nickers once more, shoving her head into his palm.</p>
<p>Geralt croons to her, low, reaching into his coat pocket for one of the carrots he always carries. She eats it from his hand with the ferocity of a starving hound, even though Geralt knows damn well she's been eating nearly nonstop. "Greedy," he murmurs, continuing to stroke her brow.</p>
<p>Roach snorts in reply.</p>
<p>"I know," he sighs, tipping his head to rest against the mare's own. She draws back to nose into his hair; he endures it with a weary smile. "The rain's stopped for now, but knowing our luck, it would storm all the harder the moment we decided to leave. Besides, the roads are no doubt washed out in the lowlands.... no point in leaving yet."</p>
<p>Something changes.</p>
<p>It takes him a second to place.</p>
<p>The stallion has gone silent.</p>
<p>Geralt looks back over his shoulder.</p>
<p>The stallion is simply... standing.</p>
<p>Standing, head held high, eyes black and brutal and cold, ribs heaving with every roaring breath.</p>
<p>Anxious distrust coils tight and wicked in Geralt's chest.</p>
<p>He knows, more truly than he thinks he's ever known a thing, that he needs to leave.</p>
<p>"Not normal," he says, low. "You're not normal."</p>
<p>The stallion doesn't react.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>Geralt spends another few minutes in the stable.</p>
<p>He doesn't last any longer than the time it takes to brush the straw from Roach's coat. He can't stand the stallion's presence any longer.</p>
<p>He pauses as he walks from the stable's heavy double doors, taking the time to give the area a more proper onceover now that the rain has ceased for the time being. In the half-light of the overcast day, the area seems less immediately ominous.</p>
<p>The forest encroaches quite near to the property, thick trees growing from the wet earth as near as three feet from the stable's outer walls. The clearing directly in front of the tavern is large enough to support two or three carriages at once, if angled correctly, but even still, it manages to feel almost claustrophobic, sheltered from the narrow trail going through the woods... the trail that, even from here, Geralt can see is virtually nothing but murky water and mud.</p>
<p>He can't begin to fathom what the trail is like in the lower points.</p>
<p>Geralt sighs, turning for the tavern's main door once again. He pauses beneath the awning, his hand on the knob, however - for his attention is caught by a small wooden sign, staked into the landscaping at the opposite corner of the building.</p>
<p>"Gardens," it reads, quite simply, beneath a carved rose. An arrow points around the building, following a narrow path he notices now that he's not seeking shelter from the dark of night or unbearable rain.</p>
<p>
  <em>A bit of exploration never hurt.</em>
</p>
<p>So, deciding there's no true harm in taking advantage of the temporary lull in the storm, Geralt turns from the door, following the path.</p>
<p>It's paved in cobblestone just like the area beneath the awning, wide enough for a single person to move comfortably alongside the tavern's edge. Small shrubs are planted along the path's edge, and though the leaves are water-bowed, Geralt can imagine them to be quite beautiful when not half-drowned.</p>
<p>Behind the tavern, the path opens up into a large area - a cobblestone courtyard of sorts, nearly half the size of the tavern's bulk, stretching out toward the forest. Geralt pauses at the path's end, gazing about.</p>
<p>From the path's end, the shrubs are replaced by a low stone wall that wraps around the courtyard's perimeter, waist-high. At the far end, the wall is broken by a wrought-iron gate with an arch that peaks merely a foot higher than the wall, one that - judging from the ivy reaching from the wall to coil among the bars - hasn't been opened in quite some time. Geralt can see the cobblestone paving continues through the gate, leading out into the forest.</p>
<p>Two stone benches sit on opposite sides of the courtyard, facing eachother. Geralt's gaze lingers on the one closest to himself. It feels... almost lonely.</p>
<p>In the center of the courtyard are two identical plots of earth, split down the center by the paving that leads toward the gate. Rose bushes grow tall and nearly wild in each plot, blood red blooms and earth-green leaves beaded with raindrops. Growing closer to the rich soil are smaller plants - pansies, ivies, exotic grasses of which Geralt doesn't know the name.</p>
<p>Geralt tips his head to the side, his gaze following the path a particularly adventurous ivy frond takes - creeping from its bed, stretching out across the cobblestone to climb up the wall. It is this frond that weaves itself among the wrought-iron bars.</p>
<p>He doesn't quite know why this plant in particular catches his interest, nor why it holds it so firmly.</p>
<p>It is movement that finally snaps him from his botanical reverie.</p>
<p>Wolf-gold eyes snapping up sharply, he goes still when he sees what had caught his attention.</p>
<p>Standing on the low stone wall is a black dog.</p>
<p>It's a massive brute, for all that it looks like a hunting hound - closer to a wolf in stature - with thick fur that grows longest in a ruff about its neck.</p>
<p><em>Bear hunter</em>, Geralt realizes distantly.</p>
<p>The dog is motionless where it stands, gaze locked on Geralt's own.</p>
<p>Its eyes are dark, nearly the black of its fur.</p>
<p>As Geralt watches, its lips curl.</p>
<p>He feels, more than he hears, the growl - feels it vibrate deep beneath his ribs, between his lungs.</p>
<p>Feels it in the air all around him.</p>
<p>Feels the way the plants between he and the hound seem to draw away.</p>
<p>Just as Geralt recognizes the feeling growing in his chest as <em>fear</em>, the growl stops short.</p>
<p>The hound goes silent.</p>
<p>Its gaze has shifted now, moved to something behind Geralt, up higher on the tavern's wall.</p>
<p>Geralt turns his head, starts in surprise when he sees the maid from earlier standing at a window on the second floor. Her eyes... though they're not turned to him, they look - feel - cold.</p>
<p>When he looks back, the hound is gone.</p>
<p>He stands there, quiet.</p>
<p>He doesn't know why he's surprised to find the maid gone, too, when he looks back up at the window.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>Geralt isn't entirely certain what possesses him to approach the wrought-iron gate, apart from curiosity.</p>
<p>He treads carefully over the sprawling ivy fronds, stopping in front of the gate to peer toward the forest beyond. He sees no sign of the black dog, though that's not necessarily a surprise; hounds can run at quite the clip when they're in the mind, he knows. <em>Wonder where the brute came from,</em> he muses idly, turning his gaze to the stone wall itself. The dog would have had to hop up from the ground on the other side, which... Geralt leans forward enough to give the mud a closer look.</p>
<p>Odd.</p>
<p>No pawprints.</p>
<p>Before he can dwell on this too long, the distant sound of wind chimes draws his attention away. Geralt looks toward the trees once more.</p>
<p>The forest's edge sits back a short ways from the garden's edge, the earth rising in a slow, gradual arch to peak in a knoll atop which the trees sit. Even though the tree cover is dense, the trunks all close together, Geralt can tell that the ground beyond is uneven, too, all rolling hills that make it even more difficult to see beyond the dark of the treeline.</p>
<p>The cobblestone path beneath the gate leads off into the trees, disappearing from sight over the crest of the nearest knoll. Curiosity nags at the back of his mind, and he hesitates at first, looking down to the ivy growing thick and winding among the bars of the gate. It feels wrong to disturb the plant that clearly invested so much time in its growth...</p>
<p>"No one here to see," Geralt muses aloud, heaving a sigh as he swings first one leg, then the other, up and over the wall. It's just low enough that he has little difficulty.</p>
<p>
  <em>Well. No one apart from the maid, if she's still there.</em>
</p>
<p>He pushes the thought aside, straightening up and heading along the path... privately shocked at how much darker his world becomes once he's beneath the cover of the trees, tall and imposing around him. <em>They're just trees. Nothing more.</em> Regardless, he cannot shake the feeling of being watched.</p>
<p>The wind chimes seem to be off to the left a ways once he passes the crest of the knoll, but the path continues straight. Geralt pauses, frowning off into the shadows. The brush is flattened and cleared aside, almost like an animal's hunting trail, leading toward the source of the noise. A look ahead along the paved path shows that it only leads farther into the woods; curiosity nags at him, but he doesn't fancy getting caught out here when the storm resumes.</p>
<p>Decision made, he turns off the cobblestone, following the downtrodden brush where it leads off into the woods. Much to his relief, he only has to go a short ways before the source of the sound comes into view. At the crest of another knoll is a massive oak tree, its roots rising high from the ground to create a tangled knot above the muddy earth. There's a hollow of sorts beneath the trunk where it grows at an angle, the roots splayed enough to bare the vulnerable underside.</p>
<p>Even without the rest, the tree on its own would be an imposing sight, but Geralt's attention is drawn by something else.</p>
<p>The limbs of the tree are adorned with wind chimes of every variety - simple metal rods, small silver-plated shapes, even some jewels hanging among the more ornate arrangements. There are simple shapes crafted of sticks and twine; there are small animal skulls hanging from lengths of beaded string; there are larger bones dangling closer to the trunk.</p>
<p>Geralt's stomach twists when he sees scraps of decaying flesh and matted fur still clinging to some of the larger bones - ribs and femurs and the like, no doubt.<em> Animals, at least. Poor things.</em></p>
<p>His gaze moves down, down to the hollow at the base of the tree - the hollow beneath the gnarled roots. His confusion only grows when he sees that the oddities do not stop in the branches of the oak.</p>
<p>What looks to be a dog's skull rests in the damp earth, the brow painted over with streaks of mud in the shape of a cross. Its maw is propped open by a short stick through the mouth, keeping sharp teeth bared. Geralt frowns when he notices the two front canines are missing, frowns harder when he sees the arrangement of stick-and-twine figures around the skull, laid there in the earth. Some are merely geometric, squares and triangles and diamonds, but others are crudely fashioned in the shape of nondescript animals - spine, legs, neck, head, tail. Others, still, are human.</p>
<p>Geralt steps closer, crouching low in front of the strange shrine - for, he realizes now, that is what he has found. A shrine, an altar... a memorial. "Who are you for?" he asks the hollow eyesockets of the hound.</p>
<p>Only the wind chimes answer him.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>He loses track of time, kneeling there before the oak tree shrine. The air feels still, dead.</p>
<p>Alone.</p>
<p>It's only when Geralt feels raindrops patter onto his head and shoulders that he finally straightens, peering up through the thick canopy. The sky has gone dark, nearly black. The storm is returning, and judging from how black the woods around him have become, it will be worse this time around.</p>
<p>"Great," he sighs aloud, turning to head back to the tavern with his head ducked low. Not for the first time, he wishes his coat had a hood. It would make this whole ordeal a sight easier.</p>
<p>Though he keeps an eye out for any sign of the black hound, the walk back is uneventful.</p>
<p>By the time he makes it back beneath the shelter of the awning at the front of the tavern, the rain is heavier, beating down on his shoulders and bowed head. Grimacing as he pushes open the door, he stops on the mat just inside, letting the worst of the rain drip back off of him before he ruins the wood.</p>
<p>Geralt doesn't realize there had been talking until, without notice, the tavern falls quiet. He lifts his gaze from the floor, pausing when he sees Renfri and Nivellen standing behind the bar. Renfri is reclining against the counter itself as Nivellen wipes a tankard clean, but they've both gone still, looking at him.</p>
<p>For a wild, brief moment, Geralt feels as though he's intruding.</p>
<p>"See the rain caught you," Renfri says, breaking the strange little silence. "Out visiting your horse?"</p>
<p>He shakes his head, clearing his throat as he approaches the bar. Nivellen gives him a pointed look, his gaze going from Geralt's face to one of the stools - one that, Geralt sees, is a couple of feet down from Nivellen himself. <em>Alright, then.</em></p>
<p>As Geralt sits down - directly in front of the both of them - he turns his gaze on Renfri, ignoring Nivellen's irritated frown. "For a minute. Went for a little walk after, until the rain started up again. The gardens at the back - they're beautiful."</p>
<p>Something flickers in Renfri's eyes, and she looks toward the stairwell door. Before Geralt can follow her gaze, she's turning back to him. "Yeah, they're impressive. Can't take any credit for them, though. Have to talk to Holly for that."</p>
<p>Geralt feels, more than sees, Nivellen go tense, just at the edges of his vision. "Renfri - "</p>
<p>"Not that she does much talking nowadays," Renfri goes on, speaking louder over Nivellen, her glare harsh.</p>
<p>The feeling of intruding is back, more intense than before. Geralt looks between the two, between the stubborn edge in Renfri's eyes and the exasperated frustration in Nivellen's own.</p>
<p>He isn't surprised in the slightest when it's Nivellen who gives in, shaking his head and going back to wiping off the tankard that had been neglected in his hands.</p>
<p>Renfri gives a satisfied sigh, turning to face Geralt properly, her arms folded on the counter as she leans closer to say in an undertone, "Don't mind him. I don't know if he's ever woken up on the right side of the bed."</p>
<p>Geralt huffs out a single, quiet laugh. "That path," he says, jerking his chin to indicate the back of the tavern, "the one that goes out through the woods? Where does it lead?"</p>
<p>"The one from the gardens leads to the hunting grounds," she replies. "Bit of a long walk, though, and it's a winding trail. Don't think anybody ever actually used it, to be entirely honest. Guess you haven't seen it, but there's a wider path going from the rear of the stable. Heads the same way, and it's just dirt, but it's a quicker journey."</p>
<p>"Maybe because it's meant for horseback," Nivellen mutters.</p>
<p>Geralt sees Renfri's body jerk, and he hears Nivellen curse, sidestepping from the foot the woman no doubt sent flying to his knee.</p>
<p>"Like I said," Renfri says with a sigh, "wrong side of the bed."</p>
<p>Geralt likes her.</p>
<p>He thinks, as his gaze drops a little lower, taking in the low neckline of her blouse, maybe he would like her a little more, if Jaskier wasn't lurking somewhere in the tavern.</p>
<p>When he looks back up, Renfri is giving him a slow, sly grin, but she shakes her head. Geralt merely shrugs, another quiet laugh escaping. She's an odd one, but... in a good way. "There's an oak tree," he says aloud, changing the subject with customary ease, "off the path out in the woods - "</p>
<p>Nivellen goes still, and Renfri's face shutters off immediately.</p>
<p>Geralt is nothing but bewildered. "... You know the one, I take it?"</p>
<p>"The one covered in all sorts of chimes and pendants and pagan things?" Nivellen grouses. Geralt blinks.</p>
<p>"I hadn't placed them as pagan, but - "</p>
<p>"All that stuff is set there by troublemakers," Renfri interjects, and she pushes herself back upright, the moment of easy companionship between her and Geralt gone in a flash. "People just going through the forest. They see things left by others, decide, 'what the hell?' Just kids, no doubt. No point in paying it any mind."</p>
<p>"People come through these woods often?" Geralt asks dryly, no longer trying to conceal his disbelief. He can't imagine their reactions would truly be this strong if it was merely an issue of trespassers. "I didn't see another house or village or farm on the way through - this tavern is the first thing I came across for miles."</p>
<p>"People travel quite the long way to make trouble sometimes," Nivellen says, and there's a harsh edge to his tone, one that brooks no further argument.</p>
<p>Geralt frowns.</p>
<p>Something - many things - are not right.</p>
<p>There's quiet between them for a moment, Renfri's eyes averted, Geralt's on the cloth in Nivellen's hand.</p>
<p>It's Renfri who breaks the silence, turning away and clapping her hand down on the bar loud enough to make both men jump. "Why don't you head back up and pass the time to dinner?" she says, her voice too loud for the topic. "Not much point in sitting around and talking all day, I don't imagine."</p>
<p>Geralt knows a dismissal when he hears one.</p>
<p>"I'll see you again soon enough, I'm sure," he says as he stands. Renfri simply nods, her gaze already sliding away; Nivellen ignores him entirely.</p>
<p>Unable to shake his unease, Geralt retreats back upstairs.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>He no longer has the energy to be surprised when he finds his mirror intact, untouched.</p>
<p>He is however, surprised to find a small, leatherbound black book sitting on his bed, atop a heavy black cloak. There's a pencil, quill pen and inkwell laid beside them.</p>
<p>Geralt stands beside his bed for a few seconds in silence, taking in the odd little gift. Jaskier, perhaps. He can't imagine Renfri would have done this, and he knows better than to think Nivellen ever would.</p>
<p>Finally, he picks up the book, running idle fingers over the uneven surface. When he opens it, he's met with a small note scrawled in clumsy ink on the first page.</p>
<p>
  <em>Stay in your room at night, no matter what you hear.</em>
</p>
<p>Geralt's frown deepens, and he turns the page. It, and all the ones beyond, are blank, made of heavy, good quality paper; meant for an artist, no doubt. He's never considered himself much of one, and he wonders what about him made Jaskier believe this to be a fitting gift, but he isn't about to turn it down.</p>
<p>He sets the book aside, lifting the cloak that was laying beneath it. It's thick and heavy, clearly meant to withstand cold temperatures and inclement weather, and - he notices with no small amount of pleasure - it has a hood.</p>
<p>He'll have to thank Jaskier later.</p>
<p>No sooner does this thought cross his mind than he realizes he's counting on seeing the strange little thing downstairs tonight.</p>
<p>
  <em>It's only been two nights, and he's already got you enamored. Pathetic.</em>
</p>
<p>Geralt sighs, crossing the room to hang the cloak up on the rack beside the dresser. He spares himself the briefest of glances in the healed mirror, frowning when he sees how haggard he looks. His hair is still damp and matted from the rain, and there are circles beneath his eyes, all the more pronounced on his pale skin. For all that he enjoys Jaskier's company, it's clear it's been taking its toll on him. Perhaps a little more rest might be in order... or, he muses, running his fingers through his hair and grimacing when he feels a knot in the strands, a damn bath.</p>
<p>He opens the washroom door, looking toward the claw-footed tub tucked away against the wall. Although the washbasin in the counter has a working faucet, he sees nothing of the sort near the tub. He'll have to find somebody to draw him the water, no doubt, and he hasn't the faintest clue where to find the maid from earlier. Nivellen would just as soon kick him out, and Renfri, well...</p>
<p>Geralt can't help but feel as though he's irritated her somehow.</p>
<p>Resigning himself to remaining unwashed for at least another day, he turns away. If Jaskier gave him the sketchbook and media, he likely expects Geralt to make use of them. A glance at the ornate clock sitting on the windowsill shows he still has an hour or so to waste away before dinnertime.</p>
<p>With a sigh, Geralt settles down against his headboard, reaches for the book and quill, and sets to idle work.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>By the time Geralt sets it all aside to head downstairs, he's finished what he thinks is a respectable sketch of the black hound he'd seen out in the gardens. It's no great work of art, that much is certain, but he takes some private pleasure in the finished product.</p>
<p>There's a minute part of him that hopes Jaskier will be... what? <em>Proud?</em> He scoffs at himself as he heads downstairs, pushing the thought aside. <em>Jaskier may not even be in the tavern's lobby</em>, he reminds himself, and he lifts his head, looking for Renfri in her usual post behind the bar, ready to serve him a meal of one sort or another.</p>
<p>Instead, he sees Jaskier.</p>
<p>Geralt stops short, momentarily taken aback.</p>
<p>The young man is sitting at the bar, his back turned; Geralt can see a glass of what he thinks is brandy in his hand, if Jaskier's constant remarks are any indication. He's dressed the same as each night before, and barefoot like always, too.</p>
<p>Pushing aside his bewilderment, Geralt slips easily back into the strange, half-dazed headspace even Jaskier's presence seems to put him in. "Wasn't expecting to see you here," he says aloud, breaking the peaceful quiet of the room. Jaskier turns to look over his shoulder, and his face brightens with a smile that makes Geralt's heart warm. "Here for dinner?"</p>
<p>"Mostly here to drink," Jaskier replies with a laugh, nodding for Geralt to join him. Geralt does without hesitation, though he comes to stand behind Jaskier, the brush of his hands on the young man's waist tentative at first. Only when Jaskier leans back to rest his weight on Geralt's chest does Geralt hold him properly, gripping his waist firmly, but no less gentle. "Yourself?"</p>
<p>"Well," Geralt starts, resting his face in the unruly brown locks at the back of Jaskier's head and breathing in deep, "I had planned on food."</p>
<p>Jaskier makes a gesture, and Geralt reluctantly lifts his head, though he sets his chin atop the little thing's head, finding himself entirely unwilling to move away at all. Only now does he notice the platter of roast meats and cheese; it looks as though it's already been picked through. "Help yourself," he says, but even as he speaks, he's picking up a little piece of chicken, holding it back for Geralt to take.</p>
<p>Geralt only just manages to resist the - frankly absurd - urge to eat it straight from his fingers, instead freeing a hand to take it the <em>normal</em> way. The chicken is impossibly tender, its juices bursting onto his tongue with flavor that makes Geralt nearly melt as he realizes just how hungry he truly is. "I know better than to guess Nivellen is the one cooking all of this," he remarks, soft and wry.</p>
<p>Jaskier laughs, leaning his head back to rest it against Geralt's shoulder as he picks up another piece, pork this time. "That bastard wouldn't know good food if it bit him in the ass," he replies, watching with rapt blue eyes as Geralt takes the morsel. "He knows his way around a bar, but that's about as far as his talents go."</p>
<p>"What about you?" Geralt asks, deciding to leave one hand free for the sake of eating and wrapping his other arm more firmly around Jaskier's waist. He feels the younger man shiver when his hand slides across his chest; something stirring low in his groin, he holds him more firmly to his chest, taking courage from the way they're alone. "What are your talents, apart from those I've experienced myself?"</p>
<p>The strange little thing merely shrugs, taking another sip of his drink. His head is still thrown back onto Geralt's shoulder, and those eyes haven't left Geralt's own once. "If you're asking whether or not I work here," he says as he lowers the glass, turning his head enough to nose against the side of Geralt's neck, "the answer is no. Not anymore. I prefer to keep my talents to myself these days. Surely you understand."</p>
<p>Geralt gives a hum of acknowledgement, far too distracted by the feeling of Jaskier's lips moving against his skin to pay much attention to his words. While the other man is distracted, he reaches for the glass of brandy sitting neglected on the bartop, taking a drink of his own and wincing immediately - mixed in with the liquor's taste is something else, something coppery, something almost like - </p>
<p>"Geralt," Jaskier says, drawing him back from - from... what was he worried about? "Geralt, look at me."</p>
<p>Blinking the strange haze from his eyes and feeling nothing but confusion when it doesn't clear he obeys.</p>
<p>The glass is empty, in Jaskier's hand. Jaskier's eyes are on his own, and Jaskier's mouth - </p>
<p>Blood, dripping from the lips that are shaping themselves around his name.</p>
<p>Geralt flinches, almost recoils.</p>
<p>He blinks again.</p>
<p>The blood is gone.</p>
<p>The blood is gone, and so is the - the...</p>
<p>There was something on the counter, just before... he remembers...</p>
<p>"Geralt," comes the blue-eyed man's voice again.</p>
<p>It takes more effort than it should to drag his gaze from the empty bartop back to Jaskier's face.</p>
<p>He doesn't look... worried, no, not really. More... pleased.</p>
<p>He blinks.</p>
<p>Jaskier looks concerned.</p>
<p>There's a shadow at the edges of his vision, off to the side.</p>
<p>He knows better than to look.</p>
<p>"Geralt, focus, can't you?" Jaskier is saying, and now he's laughing, nudging Geralt's ribs with his elbow.</p>
<p>Geralt pauses, huffs out a breath with the impact.</p>
<p>He must have zoned out for a second there.</p>
<p>"I'm plenty focused," he says aloud, closing his hand around the other man's arm when Jaskier goes to elbow him again. It's easy enough to trap that arm against Jaskier's side, to run his other hand up along the little thing's stomach, his chest, his neck... to fit his fingers around the base of Jaskier's throat. The pressure is light, teasing, barely even there, but his intent is clear. "I didn't realize assault was acceptable now."</p>
<p>Jaskier gives a sound that's almost like a purr, leaning his head back farther. It's as good an invitation as anything. Geralt leans down, noses into the side of Jaskier's neck as he squeezes his throat properly, thumb and forefinger pressing firm into the flesh on either side. "Didn't realize ignoring me was, either," Jaskier murmurs, but his voice is ragged, breathless already.</p>
<p>The moan he lets out when Geralt pulls his arms back to pin them against his lower back sends a rush of lust through Geralt's veins. Jaskier's fingers curl into fists between them, brushing against the bulge of Geralt's shaft through his trousers; with the same energy as if he's made an incredible discovery, Jaskier shifts to palm him, awkward angle be damned. The pressure of the heel of his hand makes Geralt's breath catch, and he sets his teeth to the side of the pretty little thing's neck, murmuring, "Didn't realize this counts as ignoring you."</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>Geralt is certain he's never seen a creature more beautiful than Jaskier is right now, pinned with his back to the wall, Geralt's hand firm around his throat as he works one thigh between the younger man's own. Jaskier is panting, both hands clenched tight in the fabric of Geralt's undershirt; his eyes are glassy, dazed, so fucking needy it makes Geralt <em>ache.</em></p>
<p>"Gorgeous," he breathes out, surprised by how deep and rough his voice has gone; he leans in to fit his teeth against Jaskier's collarbone, bared by the way his chemise is undone and pulled aside. Jaskier's hips buck onto the muscle of his thigh, and he whines aloud when Geralt bites down, tastes blood beneath his tongue. He licks over the beading little wounds, drinks in Jaskier's moan like a dying man. "God, the sounds you make - "</p>
<p>" - would be a lot - a lot louder if you'd get on with things," Jaskier spits out, and there's just enough malice in his tone to make Geralt falter, but the little thing's hips are rolling steadily, grinding his cock along the length of Geralt's thigh, so he chalks it up to impatience and nothing more. Customary, honestly, he doesn't know why he's surprised.</p>
<p>Geralt draws back just enough to make Jaskier whimper with the loss, squeezing his throat one last time before he lets go. "Bed," he tells him lowly, fumbling with the fastenings of his own shirt as he backs off. Jaskier all but falls away from the wall, sucking in a gasp of air now that he's truly able, but he doesn't listen at all, instead pressing right up against Geralt and craning to capture his lips in a kiss that tastes of brandy and blood and - </p>
<p>
  <em>- don't you dare leave -</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>- leave, run, get the fuck out -</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>- don't you fucking dare -</em>
</p>
<p>- of brandy and desperation.</p>
<p>The groan Geralt gives almost aches as it starts in his chest, and he gives up on his undershirt, finding a grip on Jaskier's waist as he backs them both toward the bed. He feels hazy, his world almost spinning, though he's got no clue why. When the edge of the bed bumps into the backs of his knees, he drops back, pulling Jaskier after him into his lap, unwilling to break from the kiss for more than the second it takes to make sure their teeth don't clash as he settles back. Jaskier is just as eager as always, nearly clawing at his chest in his attempts to get the undershirt out of the way, and Geralt hisses when nails bite into his bare skin.</p>
<p>"Easy, darling - "</p>
<p>And then, just as quick as he'd pounced, Jaskier withdraws, and there's such <em>hate</em> in his tone when he says, "Don't <em>fucking</em> call me that," that Geralt gets whiplash.</p>
<p>Right. He'd forgotten.</p>
<p>He gentles his hands on the little thing's waist, smoothing them up under the fabric of his chemise to trace along the bare skin beneath, watching as Jaskier shivers despite his tension, his eyes going glossy. "I forgot," Geralt murmurs, leaning in to breathe the words against Jaskier's lips. "Forgive me, sweet thing, I truly didn't mean to."</p>
<p>Jaskier draws in a breath, and Geralt feels him tremble again. The younger man is leaning closer, seeming entirely unconscious of it, too; when he gives in, when he seals his lips to Geralt's own with a low and reedy moan, Geralt knows he has been forgiven. He lets his grip go firm again, guiding Jaskier to lay back flat on his back with as much grace as he can manage when he refuses to break away.</p>
<p>The other man arches into him when Geralt settles above him, moans aloud into their kiss when Geralt runs his hands back up beneath his chemise to swipe a thumb across one nipple, to rake his nails lightly down planes of quivering muscle and heated flesh. When Geralt's fingers reach lower, palming Jaskier through his undone trousers, Jaskier bucks, keens aloud, nearly sobs his name.</p>
<p>Geralt breaks from the kiss to trail his parted lips down along the length of Jaskier's throat, sucking his fresh mark atop the ghosts of bruises from the nights before. Jaskier whimpers and whines so prettily with each kiss, splays his legs wide when Geralt pulls his trousers down enough to work two fingers inside him, and something in Geralt <em>snarls</em> with desire when he feels how wet he is even now, how much of his seed still lingers in Jaskier's slender frame.</p>
<p>"So fucking beautiful," he breathes out against his skin, crooking his fingers up as even as he splays them wide. It takes a second try before his fingertips brush over the nerves inside Jaskier, but he knows damn well when he succeeds, because the younger man arches from the sheets with a moan far too loud for the tavern, both hands flying up to tangle tightly into Geralt's hair. "God, look at you, you're so <em>fucking</em> beautiful..."</p>
<p>Jaskier's voice is cracked and broken, but there's still enough of his spirit, his fiery, impatient spirit, to make Geralt laugh, low. "Be more beautiful with your cock inside me, Geralt, <em>please</em>, I don't need anything more, I can take you now - "</p>
<p>It's the desperation in his tone that makes Geralt cave, though he so truly wants to lay Jaskier out one night, worship his body as he deserves. Geralt murmurs something in reassurance, withdraws his fingers even though it makes Jaskier whine. "Easy," he tells him softly, drawing back just enough to get his trousers undone and off. He isn't surprised in the slightest when Jaskier just about ignores him, already hooking his thighs up around Geralt's waist even before Geralt begins to press inside. "Easy, love, relax..."</p>
<p>But Jaskier is moaning aloud, his fingers weaving tightly into Geralt's hair once again to pull him down for another wet and messy kiss, and he's already rocking back even though Geralt's barely got the head of his shaft inside him, and, <em>fuck</em>, he feels amazing, wet and hot and tight, and - </p>
<p>Geralt gives up on thinking.</p>
<p>He knows there's not much point.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>Afterwards, they lay together, Jaskier held close with his back flush to Geralt's chest, Geralt's arm tight about his waist. They're both nude, only the blankets drawn up around their waists keeping them covered. Geralt's face is pressed lightly to the back of Jaskier's neck, and he alternates between simply resting and leaving gentle kisses there, reveling in the quiet, breathy laughs he earns each time.</p>
<p>It's as Geralt traces idle patterns onto Jaskier's bare stomach that he remembers. "Oh," he mumbles, his voice hoarse with exertion. "Thank you, by the way."</p>
<p>Jaskier gives an inquiring hum.</p>
<p>"The gifts you left me," Geralt clarifies, heaving a sigh as he settles more comfortably into place and closes his eyes.</p>
<p>"What gifts?"</p>
<p>He pauses then, frowning.</p>
<p>"You weren't the one who left them?"</p>
<p>Jaskier shakes his head, the motion made clumsy by their position. "What were they?"</p>
<p>Geralt could simply be imagining it, weary as he is, but he thinks he hears a hint of tension in his tone. "The cloak hanging over there," he replies, gesturing vaguely with his hand, "and a little art book."</p>
<p>Though his eyes are still closed, he can feel Jaskier lift his head, no doubt to look over at the cloak.</p>
<p>He can definitely feel Jaskier go rigid.</p>
<p>"Burn it," he says abruptly, and there's no trace of kindness in his voice. "Immediately."</p>
<p>Geralt frowns, leaning back enough to open his eyes. Jaskier is pulling away from him, sitting upright. He's gone incredibly tense, and Geralt thinks he's never seen him look so distraught. "Jaskier," he says, reaching for his waist again. "What's wrong?"</p>
<p>When Jaskier strikes his hand away, Geralt freezes, torn between confusion and hurt. "Burn it," he repeats firmly. Jaskier pulls away entirely then, standing up and starting to redress. Geralt sits up to watch, clueless as to how he's meant to react. "I mean it. I won't speak to you until it's gone."</p>
<p>"Jaskier," he tries, moving to the edge of the bed, though he doesn't make another attempt to reach after the younger man. "Jaskier, it's merely a cloak, what's - "</p>
<p>Jaskier laughs, sharp and bitter, as he tugs his chemise back over his head and turns to leave. "Don't concern yourself with <em>why.</em> Just do as I say."</p>
<p>As he yanks open the door and slips out into the hallway, Geralt sees blood matting the back of his hair, bone bared white and clear in the dim flash of lightning.</p>
<p>He blinks.</p>
<p>As he yanks open the door and slips out into the hallway, Geralt sees his hand come up to his face as if swiping away tears, though the motion is soon aborted.</p>
<p>The door shuts with a heavy click.</p>
<p>Geralt sits alone.</p>
<p>The floor is cold beneath his bare feet.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>Geralt can't remember falling asleep when he rouses, at first unsure what awakened him at all.</p>
<p>He lays there, still and alone, painfully aware of the empty space beside him, of the empty space in his arms.</p>
<p>With a sigh, he rolls onto his back, gazing up at the canopy overhead. There is no moonlight tonight, but lightning flashes often, thunder rolling deep and cruel just overhead.</p>
<p>It's because of the thunder that he doesn't hear the snarling until it grows louder still.</p>
<p>Geralt pushes himself upright in a hurry, staring toward the door. There's a light on in the hallway, just as always; he can see it through the crack beneath the door... but it's not all he can see. There's shadows, too, shadows that can't quite make up their mind what they want to be, drifting and curling as if they're alive.</p>
<p>Lightning illuminates the room, and, for an instant, the shadows disappear.</p>
<p>For an instant, the shadows are at the corners of his eye, twisting within the mirror, gone when he looks.</p>
<p>The snarling continues.</p>
<p>The shadows beneath the door have taken shape when his attention returns - four identical narrow columns, blocking out the light in a row.</p>
<p>Slowly, Geralt stands.</p>
<p>He picks his trousers and undershirt up off the floor, pulling them on almost in a dream.</p>
<p>He crosses the room to the coatrack, and now it feels as though the snarling is within his bones themselves, as if it's rattling against his ribs, screaming to be freed.</p>
<p>Even the warmth of the heavy cloak about his frame does nothing to abate the dread.</p>
<p>He moves slowly to the door.</p>
<p>When his fingers brush the doorknob, all goes still.</p>
<p>He glances down.</p>
<p>The shadows are gone.</p>
<p>Geralt breathes in once, opens the door.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading!</p><p>This work will not follow a set update pattern.</p><p>Comments / criticism more than welcome!</p><p>tumblr: gravitational813</p></blockquote></div></div>
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